


An Ineffable Intermission

by LiquidLobotomy



Series: A Good Man Goes to War [11]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, And Now For Something Completely Different, Dolphins, Intermissions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, That book, but maybe not so platonic, conversation about nothing, dusty old bookshops, ineffable husbands, platonic idiots, slight crossover, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28729911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLobotomy/pseuds/LiquidLobotomy
Summary: Where a white-haired priest and a rail-thin warlock share a bottle of wine in the back of an inconspicuous bookshop in Ironforge and converse about nothing really of importance and reminisce about the world they left behind over several glasses of wine.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Series: A Good Man Goes to War [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923286
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	An Ineffable Intermission

**Author's Note:**

> Just a funny little intermission after the nuclear bomb I dropped in this series. Needed something cute and funny, and these two hc’s decided they wanted a turn.

“D’you know what I miss, Angel?”

“No, my dear boy,” his companion replied, cradling his wine glass. “What is it that you miss?”

“ _Dolphins._ ”

It occurred every second and fourth Thursday of the month. A stocky, cherub-faced priest would close up his eclectic little shop tucked into the corner of the Mystic Ward at precisely the time listed on his operating hours announcement board. After flipping over the ‘SHUT’ sign and locking the door, after dimming the lamps with a flick of his wrist, he would duck into the back room. A rail-thin warlock with a shock of cropped crimson hair would be waiting, having appeared seemingly out of thin air ten minutes prior, pouring the first of several glasses of wine across the expanse of the evening. It was an addendum to their previous Arrangement since their arrival in this world.

“Dolphins?” the priest asked curiously.

“Glorious, big damned brained dolphins,” the warlock affirmed with a nod of his head and a swig of his wine, draining the glass. “I miss the bloody dolphins.”

The priest furrowed his brow. “There are dolphins on Azeroth.”

“Nonononono,” the warlock shook his head furiously. “Those are druids. Doesn’t count.”

“I could have sworn…” the priest trailed thoughtfully. “What about whales?”

“Well, there _are_ whales, yes, depending on which continent you’re on.” The warlock emptied the second bottle into his glass. “Not like I’d go out of my way to visit them, mind. Too bloody cold.”

“Too many Scourge,” added the priest.

“There you are then.”

“There’s gorillas here, too.”

“Eh, too smart for their own good. The ones in Zandalar alone have fully formed social structures and civilizations. And they speak bloody Common. It’s kind of like Ancient Rome in a way. I think it has to do with the bananas.”

The priest hummed and took a sip from his glass. “I miss crépes.”

“I miss Queen.”

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

“Japanese peace lilies.”

“Tartan and tweed.”

“Da Vinci.”

“Lunch at the Ritz.”

“My bloody _Bentley!_ ”

The pair grew quiet, each taking a drink in remembrance of the warlock’s beloved automobile. He had since acquired a custom Gnomish motorbike, but it just wasn’t the same. He didn’t have the confidence that the rickety cycle would be able to withstand an extended period of driving through hellfire like the Bentley had, which is why he would leave it parked outside the priest’s little shop of rare tomes and antiquities in Ironforge when he was away. Or in random spots in Stormwind, namely Old Town, if only to piss off the stuffed shirts in the capital.

”At least it’s not like the fourteenth century,” the warlock muttered around his glass.

“Oh, listen to us,” the priest sat up, reaching for the next bottle and opening it with a snap of his fingers to fill his glass. “There’s plenty this world has to offer, my dear boy. You, for example, have _minions_.”

“And you have _the Light_ , Angel. How is that working out, being subject to a belief system without a deity?”

“But Her influence _is_ here. The kaldorei call Her ‘Elune’,” the priest replied, dragging out the sound. 

“I bet She just _loves_ that,” snorted the warlock. He took a hearty swig, leaning the glass against his temple. 

“Who built this constellation, again?”

“‘Twas a joint effort, between the first and the second. I don’t recall much of the particulars. Memory’s too fuzzy. I do remember them abandoning it for other endeavors.”

“That explains the eventuality of the great bloody sword,” the priest mused before taking a sip of his wine.

“Not to mention the time anomalies.” The warlock rolled his eyes. 

“I concur, dear boy,” the priest fretted. “It is so utterly frustrating keeping all of the timelines straight.”

“They converge, they diverge, they go up, down and sideways,” groused the warlock in agreement. “Look, you and I know how it is, how it always has been, and how it always will be, no matter the plane of existence we find ourselves in. Some things just _are_. You’re always you, and I’m always me. And that blasted gold dragon Chromie always hates the both of us.”

“Bronze.”

“Hm?”

“The dragon. She’s bronze.”

“Gold, silver, copper, bronze, _adamantine_ , whatever.” The warlock tried to swallow back a small inebriated burp. “They still fuck with time like… like that one bloke.”

The priest contemplated for a moment with a furrow of his brow before it clicked. “Yes. The one with the box.”

“Good thing he doesn’t know about this universe, eh? There’s no small shortage of chaos and carnage here without the likes of him poking his nose about.”

“I shudder to think.”

“The point is,” the warlock continued, picking up the bottle and emptying it between the two glasses, the priest issuing him a small nod in thanks, “the point, the point I’m trying to make—”

“Are we doing _that_ again?”

“Doing what?”

“You _do_ have a point to make, don’t you my dear?” mused the priest.

“I do! The point is,” and here it was that the warlock was trying to think of a point. Again. “The _point is_ ,” he brightened, “Temptation.”

The priest opened and closed his mouth a few times, sticking out his bottom lip. “Temptation,” he repeated, suspiciously.

“Yes. _Temptation_.” The warlock grinned smugly, clearly proud of himself. “That’s my point!”

The priest chewed on his upper lip for a moment, contemplating the word. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that book you convinced me to sell to the Spymaster, would it, dear boy?”

The warlock’s lazy, drunken grin turned salacious. He swirled the wine in his glass. “I was proud of that bloody disaster of a piece of literature, thank you very much. Poor dove needed to loosen his corset strings.”

“And yet, that vile drivel found its way back into my shop,” he held up his glass, sloshing a bit of the wine in doing so, to stop what his companion was about to protest, “and at the expense of my first edition copy of _our_ book.” 

The warlock chortled around the rim of his glass, draining the liquid. He summoned another bottle, the priest assisting in opening it.

“Whatever happened to that book?” the priest asked tentatively. 

The warlock’s eyebrows raised behind his shadow-goggles. “Which book?”

“The, er—” the priest snapped his fingers several times, trying to pry the thought from thin air. “The book. The one you wrote.” His brow furrowed again. “With the scepter. And the shadowy chasm.”

“The dread pirate’s arsehole.”

“Yes! That.” The priest grinned proudly. “ _That_ book.”

“M’sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Angel.”

“Yes, you _do_ ,” the priest said pointedly. “It disappeared from the shop the next day. You can’t tell me you had nothing to do with it, you wily old serpent.”

“I just made sure it was returned to its proper home,” the warlock smirked. “On a grand mahogany bookshelf nestled between _Stormy Seas_ and a rather lovely first edition of _Proper Harbingers._ ”

The priest groaned. “Why must you torment the Spymaster, my dear?”

“Because it’s _fun_. And don’t look at me like that. I’m still upset at you over that--” the warlock waved his hand irritably, “heist. In the treasury.”

“Whyever for?”

“I was _supposed_ to go on that mission,” the warlock groused. “You just had to suggest the Captain—”

“Whom it turns out was just the right nudge the Spymaster needed—”

“And I got bumped off for some _champion_.”

The priest tilted his head curiously. “Which one?”

“I don’t know. That demon hunter. The one with the funny name.”

“Well, I _did_ apologize,” the priest said sheepishly. “If you think about it, we went from being godfathers to matchmakers.”

“I think I prefered Warlock Dowling to Mathias Shaw.”

“Well, if you would only stop insisting upon—“

“Nonono,” the warlock interrupted with a waggle of his finger. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare take my joy from me, Angel. I bloody _love_ gluing those coins.”

The priest pursed his lips before refilling his glass and taking a sip. “I was wondering,” he said offhandedly, “did you happen to get your assignment?”

“To the er, Other Side, as it were?”

“Yes.”

“Maldraxxus.”

“Really,” the priest said thoughtfully. “I would have thought they would have placed you…” he trailed, waving his glass slightly.

“Where, Revendreth?” The warlock scoffed as he took a swig. “Those prats wouldn’t know what in the nine hells to do with me.” He frowned. “Why, where were you assigned?”

“Bastion.” 

“Oh, aye?” The warlock feigned being impressed. “I’m sure you’re going to love it there,” he added, sarcastically.

The priest preened, just a little. “Well, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“I was there for about five minutes. Lovely place, just lovely. All soft and bright, not to mention the thinly veiled zealotry and insufferable bureaucracy. Be just like upstairs, would’nit?”

The priest’s grin faded. “I would have to be on my guard then,” he said gravely.

“Oh, it’s not all that bad. Nothing you can’t handle, Angel.” The warlock paused. “But there is just… _one_ thing.”

The priest eyed him suspiciously. “And what is that, my dear boy?”

The warlock leaned towards him, his left eyebrow curled. “ _You_ still haven’t watched _The Sound of Music._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came from an awesome little ten minute video of David Tennant reading the bookshop scene from the Good Omens book, thus I had my copy on hand for inspiration and tone. Thank you @bideru for talking me through a few bits, especially the part about the timelines.


End file.
